“Now you’ve done it.”
“Done what?”
“Lost him for me. He’s begun to suspect. He wants to know who was that shabby man with you and Peter. Of course I daren’t tell him. He says I look like him. You stupid! And last night I’m sure he was going to have proposed to me.—And Ocky isn’t even your father.”
It was all too true; Bonaparte Triggers had done with Riska. He sent her a formal letter, breaking off everything. “My father,” he wrote, “happens to know Lawyer Wagstaff, your father’s old employer. At first I wouldn’t believe that you were his daughter. I wouldn’t have minded, anyhow; I was in love with you. But you and your mother lied to me about it. I could never trust you after that. The moment I saw that man with your cousin and Glory I knew the truth.”
So ended Riska’s first attempt to plunge from the raft. She clambered back, a little damp, but with her heart intact. Glory was blamed for the catastrophe; in future she had to be more careful in meeting Ocky. Barrington, after a stormy interview with Jehane in which Peter was accused, shook his head, “Riska! Humph! Poor kiddy, I’m sorry. She’s ripe fruit, Peter. Mark my words; if she isn’t plucked, she’ll fall to the ground.”
CHAPTER XXXVII—THE RACE
“Get ready. Paddle.”
Peter’s oar gripped the water. The seven men behind him swung out. For a second he raised his eyes from the boat, searching the faces on the barge. She wasn’t there—Cherry. The Faun Man had promised to bring her up to Oxford for the last great race of Eights’ Week. Perhaps she had refused to come. Perhaps the train was late. Perhaps——.